


one single glimpse of relief

by politelydeclined



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Cuddling, Domestic Fluff, Eldritch Husbands Get To Snuggle, Fluff, I Had A Rough Week And MAG191 Came For My Throat, M/M, This Is Absolutely Self-Indulgent Please Don't Judge Me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 09:13:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28918137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/politelydeclined/pseuds/politelydeclined
Summary: The boys get to rest for a while. Playful old-men-banter ensues.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 7
Kudos: 114





	one single glimpse of relief

**Author's Note:**

> I have nothing to say for myself except for: *slaps fic's roof* this bad boy can fit so many of my headcanons in it-
> 
> title from: epiphany by taylor swift

Throughout the tunnels, there had always been a lingering scent of mould. Damp, dark and dreary, Martin had been absolutely unvexed when he had first spotted a tainted corner, covered in what he was sure the Crawling Rot would appreciate immensely.

Jon hadn’t commented on it – whether out of a random burst of politeness or his almost smug ‘I’ve-seen-worse’ attitude, he didn’t know – and perhaps that was for the best.

It’d be a shame, getting kicked out by a group of angry, offended cultists after insulting their taste in interior design.

So the smell stayed, and he tried to acknowledge it as little as possible, turning his nose when he walked by a particularly foul wall.

The room where he and Jon had decided to sleep – a discarded side tunnel abruptly cut off by a pile of debris – was, thank God, almost rid of any mildew, and the smell wasn’t as pungent as in the rest of the place, as far as he could tell.

They hadn’t bothered looking for furniture, even though Arun had approached him with a cardboard box  _ “in case you want a table” _ .

After all they’d been incessantly walking for- weeks? Months? Hard to tell. They weren’t going to be fussy about sleeping on the floor in their old bedrolls.

Besides, it was such a rare treat to see Jon’s face  _ not _ plagued by worry and fear and self-loathing for once, that Martin truly didn’t have the heart to wake him up to go look for a  _ bed-frame _ of all things.

He placed the tins down, balancing the small pack of biscuits on top before taking off his pullover and stretching his arms over his head with a pleased groan.

Turns out, wandering through a post-apocalyptic wasteland tends to take a toll on one’s back.

He thought about Salesa’s, and the afternoon he’d spent easing the knots in Jon’s back while he purred like an overgrown cat.

They’d done that in Scotland too, but most days, thinking of those peaceful weeks made his heart throb painfully in his chest.

Making sure to leave the jumper folded over his backpack, he tiptoed around Jon’s bag, the hair on his arms standing up in the chilly tunnel. If past experience was anything to go by, he could probably walk  _ over _ the prissy Archivist and he’d just roll on his side and start snoring softly, but after everything, he’d turned out to be a very light sleeper on occasion.

He’d never found the courage to ask if he’d been that way before becoming the Head Archivist.

“Jon, move over-” Martin whispered, nudging him with his hand. “Come on, sleepyhead, I’m  _ freezing _ .”

“I don’t understand why you won’t keep the sweater on if you get so cold.”

If he hadn’t been head over heels for Jon already, hearing his half-asleep attempts at being haughty would have done it for him. He couldn’t keep the smile off his face as he finally managed to wrestle his boyfriend out of the way just enough so he could crawl up behind him, sighing as Jon arranged himself to be fully engulfed in his arms.

Martin would never stop appreciating how their height allowed Jon to fit perfectly against his chest as he rested his own chin on top of his head.

“I won’t keep it on because I’ll warm up in a moment and if I’m too covered I’ll overheat like your old laptop.”

“Mmh.” Jon pointedly added. “How was your walk?”

“Didn’t run into anyone, which is good. Got us some food, and even managed to find what I  _ believe _ used to be Digestives. Though I think they’re called something else now.”

“I’d rather  _ not _ know, now that I have the option.”

“Understandable. Jesus, how are your feet still  _ cold- _ ”

Jon made a point to shove said feet – though icicles would have probably fit better – against his shins, and Martin  _ ow- _ ed quietly before leaving a kiss on top of his head.

“You still love me, cold feet or not.”

“I might  _ reconsider _ it, so don’t push it.”

He fell asleep like that, one arm beneath his head and the other holding Jon tight.

“-artin. Martin, wake up.”

He rolled on his back and groaned, voice drowsy as he tried to find his bearings.

Tunnels, right.

“Whassit?” He rasped out, blinking rapidly to clear out his sight. “Wassgon-” A yawn cut him off.

“What’s going on?” Martin tried again, clearing his throat loudly.

They were still in their bag, only now Jon was resting his head on his left hand, elbow propped up on the rolled-up cover he used as a pillow. His hair was in disarray, the usual braid discarded for an all-down look that reminded him of quite how long he’d let it grow.

“I like your hair,” he whispered, bringing up a hand to caress him. “You’re so beautiful.”

Jon rolled his eyes, but the way he ducked to hide his flustered expression was not lost on Martin.

“You’re only saying that because you’re stuck in the apocalypse with me.”

“Definitely. I’m telling you, you’re lucky the world ended, or I would have run off with the closest Scottish lassie-”

Jon poked him on the side, a giggle threatening to ruin his mock-offended face. In response, Martin rolled over him, blocking his hand above his head and tickling him back.

“Eye for an eye-”

Jon groaned loudly at that, thrashing beneath him.

“Let me out right this instant- I won’t put up with  _ eye _ puns, of all things.”

“So you can excuse me eloping with that Scottish lady but draw the line at the finest sense of humour this side of Hell?”

He received a well-aimed kick for his troubles, and soon enough they were deep into a play-fight, cheating shamelessly and taking out their knowledge on the other’s weaknesses – like that one area of Martin’s hips that never failed to make him laugh, or Jon’s ticklish spot, behind his knees.

It was a vicious matter, and each treacherous snort was a whispered  _ I love you, _ over and over again.

Jon stopped struggling, his smile lingering behind his eyes as he brought his forehead up to meet Martin’s, exhaling softly at the touch.

A quirk of an eyebrow and a small nod later, and Martin leant down to leave a feather-light kiss on Jon’s lips. They were soft – much more so than he would have imagined. He’d spent a number of nights thinking about them, and he’d figured that given their owner’s prickly exterior, they’d be at the very least chapped and on the rougher side.

He’d been sorely mistaken, but he hadn’t been the only one: he recalled Jon lamenting his ‘scratchy beard’ and how it itched on his upper lip, or on his neck.

He’d threatened to walk out on him if he ever shaved it, though, so Martin assumed it was mostly his boyfriend being his petulant, 80-years-old-on-the-inside self.

But back to his current preoccupation, he soon began to feel a dull ache in his neck at the uncomfortable position, still held up halfway over Jon, most of his weight balanced between his knees and right arm. He’d always been rather muscular, his gym membership being one of the only reasons why he left his apartment during the Peter Lukas times, but that didn’t take away from the fact that absolutely  _ no one _ would find hard concrete barely covered by a bedroll  _ comfortable _ .

“You can lie on me, you know. I don’t mind.” Jon whispered, pressing down on his back.

Martin knew he didn’t – it had been one of their go-to napping arrangements, back home – but he had other plans.

“How about-  _ ouch! _ ” Jon smiled beatifically, leaving another tiny bite on his earlobe. “You’re a menace. How about you sit in my lap- yeah, no wait a second-”

They shuffled around for a moment, mindful of bony knees and elbows until Martin was sitting down with his back against the wall that acted as a  _ post-industrial bed-frame with clear grunge influences _ . Jon was getting comfortable on his thick thighs, rolling his hips until he found a nice position. Even like that, he fell a bit short compared to Martin, and he gave him a small smile as he looked up.

“Better now, your highness?”

“Lots.” Martin brought his arms around Jon’s back, one hand resting on his hip. “Thank you, my liege.”

“Eurgh,” Jon turned his nose and kissed him on both cheeks. “You’re not allowed to be a smart ass, that’s my job.”

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> There is a tiny chance that my depression is out to get me, but before I let that fucker take me out I _am_ writing more fluffy JonMartin.  
> Also uhhhh comments are the trauma cereal to my Jon so do with it as you will-


End file.
